


An Old Song Sung in Rounds

by Muccamukk



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hair Brushing, M/M, Missing Scene, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: As they travel across Middle Earth, Legolas and Gimli trade confidences, and promises, and gifts.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 18
Kudos: 170
Collections: Fic In A Box





	An Old Song Sung in Rounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bittercape (bittercape)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittercape/gifts).



> Thank you to ThrillingDetectiveTales for beta reading <3

As the sun rose at the end of their first day's march out of Rivendell, Gimli sat on the edge of a gully and combed his hair and beard.

He had the fine antler comb his father had given him on leaving Rivendell, its handle carved with a blessing. He felt the words with each stroke, the runes clear under his thumb, though the decoration carved around them obscured them to a casual eye. Gimli rubbed only the smallest portion of oil onto the tines, not wanting to risk a strong scent.

The march had not been a hard one—they were still accustoming the young ones to walking long distances at night—but Gimli was glad to sit for a moment at peace and gather his thoughts. He might not have many such quiet mornings hereafter.

"What are you doing?"

Gimli would have started were it not for his years of training in battle. He had not heard the elf approach, and now he was sitting on the edge of the bank a yard upstream, as though he'd been invited.

"Combing my beard," Gimli said briskly, wishing a curse upon the prince's house, and another upon his nosiness. "Do elves not need to groom?"

"Verily, we do," Legolas answered. He kept his words light, but Gimli heard an edge of defensiveness in his tone. "Yet we do not make such a ritual of it as that, with a special comb, and a special song. I had thought you were conjuring spirits."

Gimli snorted. He hadn't even realised that he'd been humming, but that too was a habit, and he was not surprised to learn that he had. "It's an old song of the Mountain," Gimli said. Had it been one of the little ones asking, he would have offered that it was the song his mother had sang when she'd showed him how to keep a beard in order, but that would only elicit laughter from an elf. He hoped that his tone was clear enough that the elf would leave him in peace, but he showed no sign of departing.

Instead, Legolas leaned back a little, making himself comfortable on the river bank, and asked, "Would you sing it?"

"You pardon?" Gimli snapped.

"I have never heard dwarf song," the elf told him, and now he did nothing to hide his resentment at Gimli's brusqueness. "I meant to make an overture, yet clearly..."

"Peace, elf," Gimli said. He would not be seen as the rude one here, no matter what the provocation. "I will sing it. I do not know the words in your tongue."

"I would hear it however you care to sing it," Legolas said, and for once Gimli could not find any double meaning in his words.

"Well then, and this is a children's song, mind," Gimli said, for now that he thought of it, the simplicity of it struck him. "We sing it in round, at times." With no more room to put it off, Gimli started to sing.

It was a simple song, one of a maiden who wished to make a ring, and it listed all the steps she took in order, first the delving for the ore, then the smelting to purify the metal, then the heating and crafting, and finally the setting and carving of it. Who the ring was for was left a mystery, and Gimli's mother had never told him when he'd begged her for the rest of the story as a lad. "Herself, I should think," was all the answer he'd ever gotten.

As he sang, he continued to comb his beard until the strands lay sleek and oiled, and he could braid them again. His fingers worked the braids as he finished the descriptions of the carvings upon the ring, and he knotted them off on the last refrain.

"A good song," Legolas said, at the end of it, "You sing well, Master Dwarf."

Gimli nodded stiffly. He had come close to forgetting that he had an audience, and rather preferred it that way. At least the elf had remained quiet and not interrupted until the end.

Legolas stood then, saying that he could keep watch, and Gimli sat for a few moments to gather his thoughts.

* * *

They were safe in Lothlórien, or so Aragorn had assured the company, and the young ones seemed to believe him. Gimli certainly could not think evil of a land that such a lady ruled over, even if her people had treated him poorly these past few nights.

So he had set his shield and axe aside and found a quiet place in a glade a little away from the others. He sat in the deep moss with his back to a tree, staring up at the swaying branches and feeling profoundly glad that he did not have to climb up in one again, or even stand again. He felt weary to the bone, weary beyond reason.

Gimli had brought his pack, thinking to repair his gear, but now he sat clutching it and silently rocking. He was not humming, he was hardly breathing. Now that they were safe, he had time to think on what had happened to them in Kazad-dum: the loss of Balin and all his kinsfolk, the loss of Gandalf, the collapse of so much beauty, Durin's Bane risen again. He had mourned at the tomb and wept at the gates, but he could not now. Gimli had no tears left in him.

He didn't hear Legolas approach. He never did. Gimli only felt the light touch on his shoulder, and then Legolas was there, sitting beside him. The elf sat so close that with little movement Gimli could lean so that their shoulders touched. He could, yet he did not.

"Grief lies heavily on you, my friend," Legolas said, and Gimli nodded jerkily in reply. He felt a new tightness in his throat, but no words. Legolas took his pack from him, and opened it without asking. Gimli stared dumbly, voice still chained inside him, even when Legolas drew out Gimli's comb and hair oil, and said gently, "Turn around."

Instead of protesting, as he should, or at least telling Legolas what it would mean, Gimli turned his back to Legolas, and let his nimble fingers unpick his braids.

Legolas oiled the comb and set to work on the very ends of Gimli's hair, tugging lightly as he worked. When he came upon a knot or a stick or something from the depths of battle that Gimli wished not to think on, Legolas didn't comment, simply worked it loose and cast it aside. He used too much oil on the comb, though Gimli supposed he did not have to worry over the scent here.

"I, too, should feel nothing but grief," Legolas said, about when he'd reached the back of Gimli's neck. Now he moved with long, sure strokes, combing and recombing all the hair he'd already cleaned. "Yet in this place I find I cannot. Winter approaches in the Golden Woods, and I should mourn that too, but that is not what fills my heart."

Gimli could not speak, not even as the tines of the comb scratched against his scalp. He felt his eyes drift closed. The wind rustled in the Mallorn leaves high above, and far away Gimli could hear elves singing. Close to his heart was only the pull of the comb through his hair, and the rustle of Legolas' clothing as he moved. Still he could not weep, though he felt the tears building inside him.

He should tell Legolas to stop, though an elf could not know how intimate an act this was between friends. Or perhaps it was the same with elves. It did not seem to be so with men or hobbits, but Gimli could not tell for certain.

Legolas reached the crown of Gimli's head without speaking again, and once Gimli's hair was clean and smooth, he didn't braid it anew, but tugged at Gimli's shoulder until he turned.

They sat face to face, Legolas cross-legged and Gimli kneeling, and Legolas's hands hovered in front of Gimli's face, his intentions clear, but in his eyes a question.

"Yes," Gimli said, and let Legolas unbraid his beard.

His fingers felt cool where they touched his cheeks, but that was not why Gimli shivered. Now each pull of the comb tugged at the skin of Gimli's chin or cheeks or lips or neck. The scent of the oil rose and filled the air around them, and he could not deny the feeling rising in him as he kept his eyes locked on Legolas' face. Gimli did not let his gaze drift down to Legolas's pale, thin lips, and would not imagine what would follow this act were Legolas a fellow dwarf.

Legolas started to sing. It was the old round that Gimli had sung on that first night out of Rivendell, so long ago. Legolas sang it wordlessly, for had not understood Gimli's words, but his voice was high and clear, and the sound of it sent shivers down Gimli's spine. Legolas had heard the song once and remembered it for Gimli.

"You are a true friend," Gimli said, his voice thick. He'd already forgiven Legolas for his slights on the talin, for the words had been spoken in grief and fear. Now Gimli began to wonder if Legolas could have any idea of the effect his actions were having on Gimli. The teeth of the comb scratched down Gimli's cheeks, and he felt as though Legolas were scouring him clean again, which only made him glad he was still wearing his mail skirt.

A lock of Gimli's hair had fallen in his eyes, and instead of combing it away with the others, Legolas smoothed it behind Gimli's ear with his bare hand. Gimli shivered again, and closed his eyes. He could not face the quiet focus in Legolas's expression, or indeed the coolness of his hand against his temple. The desire to turn his face and kiss the soft skin on the inside of Legolas' wrist was almost too strong to bear.

The song faltered on Legolas's lips, and his movements froze in place, the heel of one hand on Gimli's temple, the other toying with the comb at the very tip of his beard. He had noticed, he had to have noticed. Gimli felt warm, and knew his skin must be flushed, and his heart pounding hard enough for elf-ears to hear. Even without looking down, Legolas had to be able to detect the unintended consequences of his friendly touch.

If he asked Gimli if something ailed him, Gimli might actually start to weep. Better by far that Legolas declare his work done and let Gimli braid his hair and attempt to cool his ardour in peace. He should have held the self-mastery to do that in the first place, yet it had started so innocently, and Legolas's kindness had been so welcome in the face of his bleak despair. Gimli kept his eyes closed and waited, wondering what would come, hardly daring to breathe.

Legolas's hand stroked through the thickness of Gimli's hair, fingers twining deep in the long, oiled strands. When his hand pulled free, he brushed the pads of his fingers across Gimli's cheekbone.

Gimli opened his eyes. Caught between horror and wonder, he could no longer keep from asking, "Do you know what it is you are doing to me?" 

"I am beginning to believe that I do," Legolas said, and then he leaned down and kissed Gimli on the brow, on the cheek, and on the lips.

* * *

Gimli's love of watercraft had not increased since their voyage down the Anduin in the high-prowed boats of Lothlórien. Though he would say that at least the captured pirate ships had wide stable decks and the river moved slowly here.

The former galley slaves and the fisher folk of Pelargir knew their way around the various ropes and cloths well enough, so Gimli did his best to keep out of their way. He would take his turn at the oars soon enough, if the wind didn't rise. Now, he watched Legolas standing at the bow like a figurehead, inky hair swirling around him. He'd stood there unmoving since they'd boarded, and Gimli wondered at his silence. They were all worn to the bone from the long ride across the planes of Lemnos, and from the horrors of the dead following them, but Legolas had seemed least affected, even joking and teasing to lift Gimli's spirits as they'd climbed into the ships.

Since then, he'd fallen silent, and silent he remained.

Without saying anything, Gimli picked his way across the deck to stand beside Legolas, setting his feet wide as though he were about to swing his axe. The darkness out of Mordor endured, melding the black water into the equally black sky.

"I would that I could see the stars," Legolas told him, not taking his eyes from the water.

"Aye," Gimli agreed, though he did not love them as an elf could. He had thought for a time in the Paths of the Dead that he would not see the sky again, and the lowering clouds felt too much like that of the cursed tunnels.

Legolas said nothing else, and Gimli stood by him, listening to the lap of the water against the sides of the ship, the creak of the ropes, and the splash splash splash of the oars. They were strange sounds to him, and he felt that he would not easily take to the rhythm of a river so wide it seemed a part of the sea. Legolas, it seemed, was equally out of place here.

Gimli had thought, at first, rather smugly of how confident of boats Legolas had been back on the Anduin. How ill at ease this part of the river seemed to make him was fitting in the face of that. Months ago, Gimli would have lorded over Master Elf's discomfort, but he couldn't find it in his heart now.

Legolas had not mocked him for being afraid of the dark, Gimli would say naught of Legolas' new found unease on the water.

He shuffled a little closer, coming to stand so that his shoulder pressed against Legolas' arm. The pitch of the boat rolled them against each other, and Gimli was not so easy on his feet here as Legolas, and had to steady himself by leaning against him. Their fingers intertwined, and Gimli tipped his head to rest it against Legolas's arm.

"I would not leave you," Legolas said, at last.

Gimli blinked. "Aye, you've proven that, my friend."

"Perhaps," Legolas allowed, "and yet we have not withstood every trial that may be put before us."

Ahead of them, the cloud seemed to lower until it merged with the surface of the water. If worse lay before them than Durin's Bane or the Paths of the Dead, Gimli could not fathom what it might be. They sailed towards battle and perhaps death, true enough, but they'd faced that shoulder to shoulder many times already. Gimli had said that he would walk into the very darkness of Mordor with Legolas, and even after his cowardice in the caves, he still believed that he would. Of Legolas' courage and loyalty, he had no question.

"Why speak you of leaving?" he asked, tired of parrying words with words.

Legolas didn't answer, but as the deck pitched, he wrapped his arm around Gimli's shoulders, holding their bodies tightly together. A wind was coming up from the south, pushing the ships forward, and it picked up Legolas' hair and blew it between them, the silky strands tickling Gimli's face as they brushed past. Gimli's braids stayed in place, heavy down his back.

Behind them, the former slaves turned to the pulling of ropes and the spreading of cloth to catch the wind, and the boats fought upwards against the great sweeping pull of the river.

Legolas was not holding Gimli up; he was clinging to him, and Gimli thought about the unspoken, unmade pledges that lay between them, the promise of a promise that Legolas had sealed with that kiss in Lothlórien. They had neither repeated it nor spoken of it since, but the memory of the kiss was like a cord binding their hands. Or so Gimli had believed, perhaps it did not stand as such in the mind of elves. Perhaps Legolas needed a firmer bond, some promise on Gimli's part.

"I would speak of cleaving to you," Gimli said, wishing that they could discuss this in his own tongue, which had better words for such things, "if I knew it would be welcome."

"Ai." The cry escaped Legolas' lips as if driven by a blow, and Gimli's heart felt as if it were turning to stone. "Welcome indeed," Legolas told him, "on any day before this."

He would not speak of why yet, Gimli understood, perhaps he never would. Something on that day had set his heart to parting, and no promise Gimli could make would dissuade him. "So be it," Gimli said, and his heart wasn't stone after all, for stone could not ache so. "Then may I ask a boon?"

"Anything you might name," Legolas told him, but the exception was there: anything you might name, save do not entreat me not to leave you.

"May I not have, then, a strand of your hair?" Gimli asked. He meant it, but he also knew it would make Legolas smile at him.

"Have you no other desires beyond hair?" he asked, and though he had some of that old mocking air in his voice, months of custom had softened it.

"Oh, aye, many," Gimli told him. "Were all my wishes granted, I'd have a stout axe that never notched or blunted, a secure hall with a roaring fire, a table set round with all my kin and best beloved, every one hearty and whole, a ring with bright gems made to my own design." Like Legolas, he left the most important words unstated. "Perhaps if we live through the dark days to come, I will turn my efforts to those wishes. On this night of all nights, I would have a strand of hair."

Legolas reached up with his free hand and caught his hair as the wind wove it around them. He carded through it until he had a single strand, then pulled sharply to loose it. It was the colour of the space between stars, save where it gleamed in the thin light from the oarsmen's lanterns, and as long as Gimli's arm. Instead of giving the strand to Gimli, Legolas took his hand and carefully wound it around his wrist like a bracelet of the finest chain.

Ahead of them, the bottoms of the clouds glowed red with reflected flames, and Minas Tirith burned.

* * *

After the battle, in the blessed houses of the White City, Legolas finally spoke of the call of the sea, and how it had divided his heart. Gimli tried, in his own stilted way, to beg him to stay, but knew in his heart that it was not a thing that might be altered.

They left the Hobbits in their house, and wandered the streets anew, silent until they came upon the citadel.

"I will never feel as one soul on land," Legolas said as stood atop the walls. Aragorn had called it like unto the prow of a ship, though Gimli found that its refusal to move under him weakened the simile. Below them, what had been a fertile land reeked and smouldered.

Gimli wished could understand. It sounded like the lust for gold that overtook his people sometimes, but that was a sickness, and he didn't think Legolas meant this call to the sea as a thing one ought to resist. All he understood was that one day Legolas would leave, setting off for the Undying Lands, where none of Gimli's people had ever dwelt.

"When will you sail?" he asked simply.

Legolas pulled his cloak more tightly about himself, as if mere wind could make an Elf cold. "Not until after Elessar is crowned." he said.

And Aragorn would not be crowned until after the enemy was defeated. "Will you not flee if the world of Men falls?"

"Will you?"

"My folk will delve deep and close the gates behind us, but it will profit us little." Gimli tried not to picture it, a prolonged siege on the Mountain. It could no more last now than it had when his uncle had retaken the kingdom. "Yet I do not think I shall be with them. Nay, I will fall at Aragorn's side, in whatever is to come."

"Yes, and I at your side."

Gimli wondered if that would be the only way they might stay together, but surely their souls would be riven in death. Their peoples were not forged of the same metal of souls.

"Then have your gift again," he said. It was the work of moments to pull a strand of hair from one of his braids, He'd tucked Legolas' in a locket next to his heart, and bringing it forth, he doubled it, and braided with his own, the path of the twists of hair making a song in his mind. When it was done, he made a coil of it, and pressed it into Legolas' palm. "Leave or remain, parish or thrive." There was another part to that, a part that Gimli rightly should say on the day he wed, and could not quite say now.

Yet, as always, it seemed that Legolas knew his heart, for he turned from the wall and from the view over the ruined fields to the dark mountains beyond, and when he faced Gimli, he was smiling. He closed his hand around the delicate braid, and pressed that hand to his heart. Gimli thought he knew that he carried both their hearts with him now.

"I would kiss you, if you stood but a little lower," Gimli told him.

"Would you indeed, Master Dwarf," Legolas asked, the teasing tone back in his voice, but for all that, he still bent and kissed Gimli on the lips.

* * *

It was a new age, or so Gandalf said. They went to the glimmering caves and to Forest of Fangorn, then to the greenwood for which Legolas was named, and Erebor, at last. All had taken the heat of battle, and were smouldered still even months later, but at each place, Legolas spoke of building anew, and so Gimli matched his tone.

It took him longer than it should have to understand that it would be many years before Legolas departed, taking their twined souls with him across the seas, maybe as many years as the lifetime of a dwarf, who could say?

They climbed the mountain together, and rested on its western slope, sitting beside a trickle of water that would one day join the River Running, and flow from thence to a distant inland sea.

Gimli watched the water, sitting on a rock in the last rays of the sun, with Legolas sitting beside and a little behind him.

"Even after all our wandering, there is much of this world that I have yet to see," Gimli commented.

"True," Legolas agreed, and his hand had drifted to the ends of Gimli's braids, and he toyed idly with them as he watched the sun turn the leaves of his home to a soft, glowing gold. If a mist were in one's eyes at that moment, he might mistake the crowns of Mirkwood's trees for Mallorns.

Gimli leaned back a little, resting his head against Legolas' side. "My kinsmen are setting the Lady of the Golden Wood's hair in crystal," he said.

"Oh," Legolas asked, laughter in his voice.

"Aye," Gimli agreed. "I have all my mithril and gems at my call, and my cousin is king here, should I desire to borrow more."

Legolas' hand drifted up to thread through Gimli's hair where the braids met his scalp, and tugged lightly. "And what need have you for so much wealth?" he asked.

"To crown your head and ring your fingers and make a carpet at your feet," Gimli said, picturing Legolas draped in jewels of his own crafting, set in gold of his own working. He would glitter like the stars.

Legolas was silent, and Gimli waited, long accustomed to the pace at which elves lived. "What need would I have for such gems?" Legolas asked. He tugged the thongs binding Gimli's braids free, and began to comb his fingers through them, setting Gimli's hair loose around his shoulders. "What jewel could equal in value what I have already?"

For once, Gimli found he didn't have an answer, but then, he didn't have to.


End file.
